


The Ballad Of Heather Chandler

by PrismProtector



Category: Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brutal Murder, Dark fic, Delusions, Emotional neglect, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Graphic Description, Hallucinations, Light ableism, Murder, Song: The Ballad Of Sara Berry, TW Emetophobia, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:48:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27565531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrismProtector/pseuds/PrismProtector
Summary: High school is merely a passage for most, but for Heather Chandler it was her whole life. That crown needed to be hers, and this Mighty Bitch was not letting a goddamn pity vote steal her glory. There's no future for a princess of prom and Heather was bent on the fact she was destined to be as big as John Lennon.
Kudos: 23





	The Ballad Of Heather Chandler

**Author's Note:**

> This work is purely based on the animatic "The Ballad of Heather Chandler" by Cipherdoodles! Thank you so much for allowing me to write this and dear reader, please check the video out for some lovely animation!

Heather Chandler, The Almighty.

She was a mythic bitch. A hot one, nevertheless. How many times had she gotten stared at by other girls in the locker room and whistled at by the guys for her figure and attractive face? Ram was one dumb sack of rocks, but her popularity only grew once she began dating the linebacker. Making McNamara step down from her position as Head Cheerleader had been a power play on her part as well. If she wasn't the most popular person in Westerburg High, what was even the point of going to high school? Her tendrils of power spread to each corner of the school - the teachers, the staff, the jocks, the nerds, the cheer squad. Either intimidated by her father's wealth or through fear of what humiliation the Heathers could put them through to secure their spot as the Elite Three, everyone was under her perfectly-manicured thumb. 

That is until the lard-asses found themselves a little martyr wrapped in ribbon and colorful unicorn sweaters.

"MARTHA DUNNSTOCK SURVIVES TRAGIC ACCIDENT" - the title that was on almost every newspaper after that fateful weekend. Heather barely believed until she saw the freak with crutches on the next Monday, lacking one of the ham reserves she called a leg. Not that she cared as long as it didn't interfere with her.

Little did she know.

It started small. Suddenly Kurt wasn't smacking her tray directly from her fat hands anymore. People even began acknowledging her - with sympathy, for god's sake! Never in Heather's life did she think anyone but that Veronica girl would be sympathetic to the bug-eyed creature outside of kindergarten. She had even planned to make Ram walk over to Martha and swipe one of those crutches from under her arms, but he had looked at her like she was mental. Heather figured it was merely a matter of time. In a few weeks, all that pity from Martha would disappear and she would be back to being the outcast. Until then, she hoped the hunchback of Westerburg High enjoyed the glittery cards and the extra chocolates. They wouldn't last long. Not with prom so close to them. Despite the attention poured onto Martha, Chandler walked with lightness on her steps, almost as if floating. She was going to become Prom Queen - basically immortal in high school lingo. Her popularity would sky-rocket and from there on, her life was set. No one would ever talk about Martha, or Duke, or McNamara ever again. Her friends already knew their place. Even if they were voted for prom court by the student body, they wouldn't advertise their campaign at all. They were meant to help her own, after all. Where would she sign her posters other than on Duke's back?

Her crown, her sash, her scepter. They needed to be hers, no matter what. She was the only one deserving of it. No one's beauty compared to hers, no one had the royalness she carried, no one did their makeup so flawlessly. Her ownership of that high school was close to being declared. In two months, she would be standing on the stage, bowing to a crowd that loved her, that wanted her, their Queen of Hearts. Chandler frowned at that thought while she drove McNamara home. No, the Queen of Hearts got decapitated, did she not? Queen of High School Land. Cheesy, but she quite liked the tone of it. Should she start working on the posters? Oh, what was she saying? 

"Heather, my sweet," came the gentle tone that she only used on McNamara - at least when she wanted something from the girl, "you know how to mess around with those photo editing programs, don't you?"

McNamara perked up, either surprised by the request made or because she had been talking for ten minutes about Kurt only to find out Chandler hadn't been paying attention. Not that that was unusual. "Yes, I- Yes, I absolutely can! My father taught me how to so I could help with the advertisements during Sum-"

"I didn't ask for your life story, Heather. I need you to start working on my posters so I get voted for Prom Queen." Her voice was surprisingly calm, despite the fact she had just loudly honked at a bastard for running a red light and nearly hitting her car in the process. Good thing she was good at braking. By the corner of her eyes, she watched McNamara's big blue ones widen.

"This early? I mean, I do not mind at all Heather, but isn't it rather soon for-" Chandler's raised hand made her pause right there and she saw this is was not an issue worth arguing over. Her wish was her command, as it should always be. The ex-head-cheerleader lowered her head as she nodded. "Yes, Heather. I'll start working on them this weekend." 

"Good." Their ride fell dead silent until they got to McNamara's house. Chandler parked carefully, aware that as powerful as she was, it would still be shitty to ruin Mrs. McNamara's beautiful flowers. She waited until the other closed the door before leaning back on her seat. "And Heather, use the newest pictures." The smaller girl nodded rapidly as she began to skip towards the front door. "And red letters!" Came the last demand before she began speeding up to her house. 

Speeding was therapeutic. Nobody thinks a pretty girl has feelings, yet there she was, anger boiling underneath the skin. All the princess treatment Martha had been receiving lately made Heather restless, though she couldn't surely point out why yet. It was a bad feeling that crept up her spine, like clawed hands that made her squirm and filled her stomach with poison. Her hands tightened around the wheel, almost like she desired to break it. Chandler wasn't the kind of person who allowed her anger to control her physically. If someone made her angry, she always found a way to humiliate them, but it would be a bad play to mess with Martha right now. People were pitying her and it would be social suicide. After all, she was aiming for Prom Queen, and every little vote counted. With a deep breath, Heather's grip relaxed and she fixed her posture right before her car could be seen from her house's windows. She barely had to peek to know her father was home - the study room's lights were on and though they were close to the end of Winter, it was still dark out at the end of the afternoon. Enough that she could see his silhouette. Her red Ford Mustang was parked neatly next to her father's black one and left it, closing the door softly. Automatically, her hands rose to fix her collar and pat down her skirt.

Her mother barely gave her a nod of acknowledgment when Heather walked through the kitchen, only a monotone; "Remember to greet your father", before going right back to chopping up the vegetables for dinner. Chandler looked up at the polished wooden stairs and felt her shoulders drop slightly before she squared them and lifted her chin. The upper floor was mostly covered in darkness, aside from the small line of light that came from the ajar door of the study room. She turned her hand and knocked at the door with her knuckles. From there, she could already smell the cigarette smoke, filling her lungs and forcing her to choke back the coughing. A similarly impacting voice came from within the room. Two hoarse, deep words.

"Come in."

Heather pushed the door, but stood at the entrance, her voice as dry as her father's. "Evening, Father." Her hand remained on the doorknob, tensing as he turned his head. Albeit only enough to see her from the corner of his eyes. He took another puff from his cigarette, and to her distaste, she noticed the windows weren't even open. Heather waited for his response - it wasn't polite to turn her back on her father. Her mother had taught her that ever since she was little.

He cleared his throat and soon enough he was facing the window again. Heather could barely see his reflection in the glass with all the smoke. "Fix your hair, it looks like you got in a tussle. You're no harpy, remember to take your brush to school." Then, the usual dismissive gesture of his hand came from her father. Heather felt her shoulders drop in defeat along with her head. The fingers on the doorknob had turned white. 

"Yes, Father." Slowly, she closed the door, almost silently hoping he would choke to death on all that cigarette smoke. Her back met the back of the door for a moment before she pushed herself off and walked towards her room. She fell on her bed with a groan, a deafened punch meeting the covers. It was fine - she was fine. She was the hottest bitch in Westerburg High. In a couple of months, she would be Prom Queen, and everything would be fine. Her parents would be proud and the entirety of the student body would worship her. She was worthy of that. Martha wasn't.

. . . What was she thinking about? Martha would never come close to being nominated for Prom Queen. She was a nobody. A lard-ass who was milking her injury for pity and gifts. Heather laughed to herself. Soon enough, none of that would matter. Crown, silver, sash, scepter. A dance with Ram or whoever was deemed Prom King. Applause. Everyone down on their knees before the Queen. Slowly, she lifted her head and sat at her vanity table to brush her hair. Her beautiful reflection smiled at her. There was no reason to stress, that crown had her name on it. Her hair was brushed to perfection and she retouched her makeup, her green eyes glinting underneath her black mascara. Dinner wasn't even ready yet before she called the nearest dress emporium to schedule a time to try prom dresses. Given the employee's confusion, she figured she had been the first to schedule such an appointment. Good. Prom Queen was her dream, her claim. Nobody would take it from her. 

At least, she was convinced of that, until rumors began to stir for the following weeks, until the very last few days before prom night. Heather had just signed her name on a flattered student's notebook, all smiles and laughs with McNamara and Duke, before going to the bathroom. The nauseating noises from Duke's vomiting always threw her off, but McNamara didn't like to leave Duke alone whenever her bulimia acted up. She even held the other's hair, how sweet. Carefully, she ran the brush through her blond hair while a couple of other girls chatted a few sinks away. Usually, she would have told the giggling pair to buzz off, but the words that she heard made her heart drop into the pits of her stomach. 

"Did you hear? I think most people are voting Martha Dunnstock for Prom Queen! Isn't that nice?" The first girl chirped and to Heather's horror, the other nodded eagerly.

"I did! It's such a lovely thing to do. The poor girl must be going through so much. Didn't we all hang back in kindergarten..? We just suddenly all fell apart. I remember her being so sweet..." 

A snap made everyone's shoulders jump, aside from Chandler's. Her red plastic comb had been snapped in half and her lips were a tight line. They couldn't be serious, could they? Martha Dunnstock? Prom Queen? No. Heather had to be dreaming. Having some kind of twisted nightmare. She spun on the spot, her steps uncharacteristically heavy as she approached McNamara. "Do you have the posters?" The other girl nodded quickly, almost as if fearful, while pointing towards an extra bag she had brought with a dainty finger. Said bag was immediately taken by Chandler. Smart girl had even brought glue and a stapler. At least McNamara was useful in many ways. She was lucky enough to not run into any teachers or staff to catch her outside of class. Some girls had already started their poster frenzy, but Heather had no qualms about hanging her own over theirs. Over every other poster and announcement, on the lockers, taped to doors, flyers slipped into lonely bags. It couldn't be true, it just couldn't. Was Martha really going to get pity votes? She knew it. The bitch was milking her injury. It had been at least a couple of weeks, how come there were even more people cooing around her, helping her? Staple, tape, staple, tape, glue, tape, staple-- One of the staples nicked her index, causing it to dribble blood, but she ignored it. By the end of the school day, the hallways were covered.

Check Heather. Choose Heather. Vote Heather Chandler. She owned that school. Surely a bug-eyed hunchback like Martha couldn't surpass her power. Did their pity go that far? Martha didn't deserve that crown. Someone like Martha was not supposed to win - only in those cheesy drama movies. When Heather got into her car at the end of the day, she didn't feel too bad for not riding McNamara home. Kurt and Ram could do it. That time, it was she who ran a red light and got honked at. Not that she cared. Her hand left the wheel and flicked off whoever was in the other car. She got home in record time and slammed her Ford's door shut. That time, her mother barely had time to address her when she came in. From the line of light on the floor once again, Heather figured her father had come home earlier again. Twice in a month? That was quite something. Her room's door closed behind her and she ripped off her scrunchie, throwing it towards the vanity table before falling on her bed, muffled sobs of frustration quickly filling the room. Outside of her room, she could hear a hushed conversation. A low argument, before there was silence for a short moment and steps began coming towards her door. Heather quickly sat up and rushedly wiped at her tears with the backs of her hands. She was looking down but quickly identified her father's shoes when he opened the door.

"We raised you to greet us when you get home," came the stern scold before his arms crossed over his chest, his near-lifeless eyes watching her. "What has you throwing such a fit tonight? It's unbecoming of someone of your status-"

"They're voting Martha for Prom Queen!" Heather barked out, half-choked by tears, louder than she intended. "The lard-ass is milking her stupid injury to get some pity votes and people are riding on her lies like they're their inflatable dolls!"

"The Dunnstock girl?" Her father rubbed at his bearded chin. "I did hear she lost her leg some time ago. It would be a good excuse to get voted on." His heavy hands fell on her shoulders and Heather felt herself shrink under the touch. "Heather, life is a prom. I know you won't disappoint me and mom." One of his hands reached under her chin, tilting her head up, and she nearly expected a tender gesture, so her lips curved into a shaky smile. "Go wash your face. You look like someone ran you over."

And then, he was gone. Prom was a week away. Could she still win? Yes, yes, she could. Heather looked at her mirror and didn't see a defeated princess. She saw a future queen. What she had heard were mere rumors. Martha likely wasn't going to even invest in a campaign - she was likely too busy going to physic therapy or some bullshit like that. Her phone lighted up, and she reached for it. Ram was messaging her, seemingly for a date. Heather threw her phone towards her pillow and got up to wash her face. A queen doesn't bend when a peasant tries to take over her kingdom. She puts all of her power in the army - and in that case, Heather was her own army. For that week, all her efforts would go to her quest for Prom Queen. It wasn't impossible to be nice for a couple of days, was it? With the running mascara wiped off and redone, she went downstairs for dinner, her plan already on motion in her head.

Heather woke up earlier than usual the next day. Baking was out of option - she was a disaster at it. Her only other option was buying those sugar cookies the lard-asses that were her classmates seemed to like. She bought a few packs and drove to school, readily claiming one of the hallway desks that staff used, though it was rare to see anyone other than a student on break sitting there. Sugar cookies and flyers, ready to be distributed. At least that was her intention until she saw her posters from the day before, covered by pink and purple ones, "SUPPORT MARTHA" written on them. It felt like taking a punch to the stomach. Most of the ones she had put on people's lockers were gone too, torn into bits and thrown in the trash. The cookies were shoved back inside her bag and she marched towards the poster pinned over hers. To her surprise, who else other than Martha stood in the hallway when she tore the thing clean off?

"Heather-" The girl started, but Chandler already had turned the low-quality paper into a ball and thrown it away. The taller, lanky girl wasn't with her at that time. 

"Do you think this is funny, Dunnstock?" Heather talked through her teeth, anger clinging to each of her words, almost like a hissing serpent that stepped closer to Martha with each syllable spoken. "You think you can just steal the crown from me this easily? That you can lose your fucking ham-stump and milk all of these loser's hearts for pity? Is that all you're good for?" One sharp, red nail stabbed against Martha's collarbone and the girl fumbled with her crutches to step back.

"Heather, don't- I'm sorry, it wasn't m-!" Martha stuttered, her eyes wide and fearful behind her glasses, especially as Chandler only leaned closer to her. For a moment, she feared for her life.

"Oh, you're SORRY, are you? I never liked that goody-two-shoes show you had up, you know? And suddenly, you're surrounded by gifts and smiles. That must feel good, doesn't it? I bet it has given you shower nozzle masturbation material for weeks! But now, Dunnstock, you put your fat ass in my way, you know? That is not very of you. A real pity you got into that accident..." Her hands lunged faster than her brain could process the idea and grasped at one of Martha's crutches, ripping it from under the other's arm, "It would've been better if you had died right then and there!"

There was a loud thump - of course there was, given the one who fell was Martha - as the other lost balance and fell on the floor. What Heather didn't expect were the multiple gasps of shock. Not only that, but the shrilling screech that came from the end of the hallway. "WHAT'S YOUR DAMAGE, HEATHER?" The scrawny girl that always stood by Martha's side marched towards her, tugging the crutch from her with the same ill-intention she had ripped it off of Martha. Behind Veronica, Heather could see Betty Finn running towards them with a teacher in tow. There were more faces around her than before. Chandler looked behind her, meeting Duke and McNamara's shocked expressions. Even Ram - asshole, insensitive Ram - was glaring at her by Kurt's side. Her body froze and she couldn't even make out what the teacher was yelling to her. She focused on Veronica helping a crying Martha back up, on the whispers, and then the fingers pointed at her. Was this it? At some point, she knew she was being dragged by the wrist by Mrs. Fleming towards the principal's office, but her eyes were on her phone, widening in terror. 

Messages had become the latest thing with the new cellphones that had popped up. Hateful messages poured in Heather's. Who shared her number with all those lard-asses? By the time she was sat in the chair in front of the principal, she was numb. He kept yelling at her and reddened in fury, but Heather didn't seem to absorb any of it. Was she getting suspended? She wasn't sure. Her head was in another place, racing. Her life was over, wasn't it? She was socially dead. The crown would never be hers. It had Martha's name engraved on it after her little stunt. How did she let it come to that? Why did the hunchback have to show up alone right as she felt like digging one of those sharp pins in her forehead? A loud bang made Heather jump in her chair and she noticed the principal had banged his fists on his desk, forcing her to snap out from her unfocused state.

"I told you to go home, Heather," came his words from between gritted teeth. She bit into her lower lip and nodded as she got up, her steps feeling as if she had a bucket of cement on each foot. The walk of shame out made her feel as if she had shrunk. The gazes of admiration she once enjoyed so thoroughly were now hateful stabs that tore into her each time she caught a new pair of judging eyes on the edges of her vision. At some point, she was pretty sure someone had spat towards her. 

Upon reaching her car in the parking lot, Heather realized how weak her legs were. They shook and trembled as if the ground underneath her was pure ice. Her reaction only worsened when she noticed the deep scratches in her car, along with the vast painted insults that stained the once beautiful red. Feeling utterly defeated, the girl's shaky hand pulled the door open and she sat in her car, glazed eyes seeing double as she fought to turn the damn thing on. The seatbelt was forgotten along with the speed limit. She couldn't quite remember once she pulled up to her home's garage, but given the new splatter on the car, she assumed she had hit something. Maybe someone. Heather didn't even care about cleaning up her car. Her mother even jumped at how quietly her daughter had shown up behind her before both shared a simple nod of acknowledgment, all the greetings they needed. The principal hadn't called her mother? Surprising, but relieving.

At least for a short-lived moment before she quietly closed the door to her room. Aware of the fact that she shouldn't look, but consumed by terrifying and bone-chilling curiosity, Heather took her phone out of her bag and looked through the messages. Mostly unknown numbers cursing her out, urging her to kill herself. Then the top ones, from McNamara, urging her to not ride her anywhere or talk to her any longer, from Duke, insulting her for being a "psycho-bitch", and finally her current boyfriend, Ram, who decided to end the streak with the most hurtful of gut punches.

"I'm taking Martha to the Senior Prom."

All her will to fight for her popularity and power seemed to die right then and there. She stood alone, with Martha having finally learned how to wield the tendrils of power herself, like some malformed Ursula. The hand holding the phone as if it was a lifeline slowly lowered towards her lap, Heather's eyes fixated on a faraway spot in her walls until the device suddenly vibrated. A fearful glance down explained the call. Her father. She would have preferred a death threat by Sawyer. Hesitant, a slender thumb accepted the call and she rose the phone to her ear. Greet first, as she had been taught.

"Father."

"You have a lot to explain, Heather. I've received the most alarming of calls from your principal. In the middle of a reunion, nonetheless. Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?" She bit down on her tongue, holding back the fact that he could have simply ignored the call. "To have to leave an important meeting because my mistake of a daughter cannot control herself? Would you like me to check you into an asylum?" His words came forth so filled with venom that Heather heard herself stuttering to hold back the tears that began to pool in her eyes. "And you greet me just like so? "Father"? Why be so calm? There's just no future for a princess at prom."

With those last words, he hung up. Heather sat there, listening to the drawn-out dial noise of the end of the call. Then, her arm finally dropped in defeat, the noise muffled by her sheets. Heather wasn't sure how long she sat on her bed. It felt like minutes, but somehow sunlight had disappeared from behind her. From downstairs, she heard her mother call out to her. She needed to go out. Dinner was on the counter. Given Heather heard no screech, she guessed her mother left through the front door and not through the garage. An unfamiliar honk made her jump before her mother was gone for the night. And then, her body finally gave out, the once mythic bitch of Westerburgh High falling on her side on her bed, uniform and shoes still on. Her eyes stared at that same spot in the wall until she eventually found restless sleep and consequential, haunting nightmares.

No matter how much she tried, the giant trunks with razor-sharp thorns stopped her from reaching the podium where her crown sat. Wood blades dug into her skin and clothes, scarlet flowers and their petals spilling along with blood all over the floor. It hurt. The more she bled, the weaker she felt. Heather finally succumbed, reduced to her knees, and forced to stare up in awe as the thorns parted for Martha to retrieve the sash, scepter, and crown. Big brown eyes glanced downwards at her right as the most malicious of smiles Heather had ever seen cracked Martha's lips apart. The girl screamed and grabbed at the first thing that rested near her in a frenzy, unsure if she was awake or not, and threw it, opening her eyes right as her phone broke her mirror into various cracked pieces. On the chair in front of the vanity rested a beautiful red dress along with a note from Heather's mother. Of course, she didn't know. With her teeth biting down on her lip so hard it bled, the former queen approached the garment, briefly glancing at the note where her mother told her she would be gone for the day, Perfectly manicured nails had turned short and lacking polish in spots due to anxious biting and picking, but they did the job when it came to ripping the dress's skirt, at least up until her widened gaze met her reflection in the broken mirror, smiling at her. Instinctively, Heather tensed up in terror but straightened her back. The one in the mirror was exactly who she wanted to be. The Prom Queen. Queen of Highschool Land. Wrapped in the red dress that she had tried to ruin, serene but confident, yet a mischievous look lingered in her eyes. The reflection beckoned her over and she obeyed, not even flinching when a pale hand reached forth from the mirror to cup her cheek. Desperate for contact, she tilted her head towards the touch but found only porcelain-like coldness. 

"Heather, my sweet," where had she heard that before? "you know it better than anyone. There's seven reasons why this crown's not good as got. It's the night of prom. Think, my darling. There is still time." Just like that, the touch withdrew and Heather found an uncomfortable sharpness in her hand. One of the mirror pieces, so conveniently shaped like a dagger. Heather looked down and just like in the mirror, she saw a queen. She saw the future. And so, with hope and adrenaline filling her lungs, Heather decided to get ready for prom a few hours early. Yet, she planned to be fashionably late. That time, she smiled along with her reflection as smudgy eyeliner was applied.

That crown was hers.

Her mother had likely not seen her car yet, or she would have never have allowed Heather to drive to prom in it. Perhaps she had expected Ram to take her himself? Doubtful that he would — her car was better than his. And so, her high-heel met the accelerator, prompting the vehicle to move. She decided to go for the scenic route, parking her car deep into the wooded cemetery behind the school. Spring was rolling in, but despite that, the woods' ground still rolled with a lazy fog that chilled her to the core. At least, it should have. Maybe she would have turned back and urged her parents to move, but the anger that burnt inside Heather kept her as warm as Hell itself. 

Plus, there was someone she was eager to meet there. She knew Kurt liked his smoke breaks from what Ram had told her. Especially right about there, where he couldn't be seen. Even brainless football players needed their alone time, she guessed. With a bottle in hand, Heather put on her best strut towards the smoking man, feeling as if she was walking upon the fog itself. Kurt noticed her by the corner of his eyes and immediately, a dumb expression settled on his face along with a grotesquely large smile.

"Heather? Well, nobody expected to see your mug at prom today. What happened to you? Somebody ran you over?" His eyes analyzed her from head to toe, taking in the torn dress, smudged makeup, and messed up hair. "Was it that Veronica girl, cuz she's been talking about it—"

"Oh, none of that." She settled on the tree next to him and seemed to take a swig from the bottle. In fact, her thumb was still in the gargle, but the smoke of Kurt's cigarette stopped him from noticing such a simple trick. "I'm moving out and away, daddy's rules. But first, I'd like to apologize to Westerburgh High. I was a mythic bitch..." Her arm stretched towards Kurt, who seemed to be half-listening. He was never the smartest man. "Starting with you," her lashes fluttered and suddenly, he seemed way more invested in the conversation, "I owe you booze, don't I? Heard the student council made it so the punch at prom has no booze because it interferes with poor Martha's medication." 

He barely had a glance at the bare glass bottle with the swirling pink liquid inside before he was snatching it from Heather's hand, a sleazy smirk on his lips. "After I drink this, you owe me a piece of that ass too, sweetheart." 

Thankfully, she didn't have to mask her disgust for long. The stupidity of the man was such that had him chugging the punch despite the strange taste. Then came the crash of glass on the ground once Kurt doubled over, both hands grasping at his throat as he had a coughing fit that quickly evolved into constant blood vomit. With nothing but small surprise at how quickly the poison had acted, Heather leaned down to fish Kurt's phone out of his pocket. It wasn't hard to find Ram's number, which she had never bothered to memorize, and text him. Booze! Smokes! That was what most of their messages were about, after all. Aside from the ones from the day before, accusing her of being a cold-hearted bitch. Barely a moment afterward, she received a text stating that Ram was on his way. With all the calmness in the world, Heather ignored the gurgling pleas of the poisoned man as more and more liquid pooled by his face. Hid behind a tree several feet away, she listened to Ram's heavy steps becoming increasingly faster once he saw the state of his blued friend.

"Kurt? Kurt?! What the fuck, buddy? What the fuck happened?!" The panicked words left him as he kneeled, stunned by the gross display. "Alright, buddy, it's okay, I'm gonna— I'm gonna call an ambulance!" 

With his gaze glued to his phone, Ram barely missed it as Kurt's increasingly lifeless eyes stared over his shoulder, attempting to warn him about the looming figure behind him. The sound of rock hitting and breaking cranium was sickening, yet cathartic to Heather. Ram fell to the side, unconscious, but Heather didn't stop there, each hit adding more splatters to the ground and digging more of the linebacker's head in and spurting more of his brains out. Forced to watch the sickening display, especially as the girl did all of that with an ear-to-ear grin on her face, Kurt's life faded soon after and the two were left there in the depths of the cemetery before Heather slowly rose to her feet, legs shaking just like the day before but out of pure excitement instead. Soft laughter poured from her lips as the blood-covered phone in her hand flashed with a new message to Kurt. 

McNamara, with a scandalous invitation for him to meet her in the running track's storage room for a proper prom initiation. Sweet, sweet sunflower of a girl wasn't all that she seemed, or perhaps she truly loved Kurt. Well, her lover was dead now — it would be rude of Heather to not pay respects to her friend. There weren't many people around yet, after all. Most were inside, preparing the gym for the big night. So, Heather advanced through the woods, seeking out her particular ray of sunshine until her blood-splattered figure surged from between the trees with a quick step towards the ajar room. Just outside of it, she noticed gym material left around, including baseball bats. Probably making room for the decorations. She couldn't remember anyone ever using those bats but at the very least, she would finally give them some use. Grabbing one at the same time she walked, the red queen's free hand pried the sliding door open, making the other, whose back was turned, jump in the process.

"Kurt! I was wondering when—" her curly hair had barely stopped bouncing from the turn when her big, gentle eyes widened, "Oh."

Those were her very last words before she fell to the ground, a limp doll in a pretty short dress. From the dent in her head, Heather doubted another hit would be necessary. Instead, she rolled the body with a kick and leaned down to retrieve the cheery blonde's phone. Three gone, four to go. She rose her head and met the mirror wall in the tiny room, her reflection smiling at her once more, this time humming while doing a dance in a luxurious ballroom. Had that room ever had a mirror wall? Heather squinted, it disappeared for a moment, and then it returned. It didn't matter. She had a crown to claim. A blood-stained crown wrapped in beautiful thorns meant for her. Only her. Lying, injury-milking lard-asses didn't deserve that kind of glory in their miserable life. 

With the flame of her anger reignited, Heather waltzed to the tone her reflection hummed while she wrote a message to her favorite bulimic — Duke. Something about poor McNamara having been taken advantage of by Kurt and having hidden in the kitchen. The food for prom was all ordered, so the kitchen would likely be vacant. And with just a turn inside, Heather found out she was right. As the sun slowly began to set, oranges and yellows shone on Heather's bloody self while she carried herself inside the cold kitchen. The girl merely had to open the first drawer she reached towards to find herself a long, sharp kitchen knife. With the graceful steps of a dancer, Heather entered the walk-in freezer, leaving the door ajar before she shuffled back, making sure she could not be seen from the door. Not too long after, the clicks of Duke's heels as she entered the kitchen made Heather bend her knees slightly, so she could reach the door without showing herself.

"Heather?! Where are you? This better not be a fucking pran-!"

The soft bangs from within the freezer made her jump at least two feet in the air, not that Heather could have seen that from within the icy prison — otherwise, she would have laughed. "Heather? What the fuck did he do to you..?" There was a strange softness to Duke's voice, Chandler noticed. Bloodied hands gripped the handle of the weapon tightly, grounding Heather. No future for a princess at prom..? No future for anyone that stood between her and her throne. The door in front of her opened slowly, Duke's brows furrowing when she noticed a red skirt and a darker blonde than McNamara's. Her arm didn't stop pulling at the heavy freezer door until she could see Chandler crouched down with a predatory gaze in her eyes. Blood splatters were barely noticeable on her dress, but there was no mistaking the stains on her skin. With a fearful gasp, the girl shakily gripped the door and her strength failed her, not even allowing her to try and close it before her once friend lunged towards her. At first, there was only the guttural noise of a blade plunging in her stomach. Then came the searing pain. Chandler's free hand was on the middle of her back, stopping her from stepping back as the other hand guided the knife from one end to the other. A squelching wet noise told the both of them enough without their eyes ever falling down. Duke's insides hung outside of her flesh cage, prompting her to gasp and cry in pain and fear while blood pooled in her mouth the deeper Heather dug the knife in. After making sure the other could not let out anything but a weak gurgle, the weapon was removed with a tug and a delicate side-step that had Duke fall on her open stomach on the freezer's floor. 

There was little that Heather could make out of her reflection with the blood covering the blade, but still she smiled at it. Wouldn't her father be proud? One by one, the threats to her throne were falling. It was the time for the hardest trials, as Heather couldn't possibly think about luring Veronica to her with a message from any of their phones. She actually had to hunt the girl down, chase her to the ends of the world if needed. At least, that was what she thought until she saw a shadow standing at the entrance of the kitchen. Had Duke made that much noise? Heather was sure she didn't hear her scream — perhaps the adrenaline and her own heartbeat had stopped her from hearing it. And who else would be standing there, other than quiet and loyal Veronica Sawyer? The girl's eyes were wide with fear and quickly filling with tears from the scene witnessed, from the figure of Heather Chandler drenched in the blood of one of her best friends, who still gurgled quietly below her on top of her marinated remains. The messy-haired girl took a shaky step back, followed by another, which were mimicked by the queen's steps forward. Usually, royalty shouldn't have to break a sweat chasing a convicted criminal, but once Veronica turned to run Heather knew she had to go after her. 

How her ankles did not sprain as she chased the greasy little nobody through the hallway was never a question to her. A queen was graceful, even in the most intense of moments — even covered in blood. Veronica wasn't so lucky. Clearly not meant to ever walk on heels, the girl often stumbled as she pushed against the door towards the school's pool, surely hoping someone from the cleaning crew would be there to help her. Upon reaching the uncovered dark water, she froze when she saw the large room completely desert. Behind her, Heather's echoing steps grew closer while she caught herself chilled to the bone, unsure of either to take the short route towards the dressing rooms and hope to hide there or take the longer route to exit into a different hallway, closer to the gym, closer to other people who could help her. Veronica had clearly never watched many horror movies, given lingering around when chased was the worst thing someone could do. A body collided with hers, sending her straight into the pool, water quickly filling her open-in-shock mouth. Heather knew that with how much she struggled, this one wouldn't be easy to get rid of. Still, she tried. Her hands held the girl's head down no matter how much Veronica kicked, thrashed, and tried to claw at her face and wrists. The writhing only made the grip around the back of her neck tighter. The feeling of water filling one's lungs, she wondered how much it burned. A lot, given how Veronica tried so hard to avoid her fate until eventually, quiet. Panting and semi-washed of her blood and makeup, Heather swam towards the stairs to pull her body and heavy soaked dress out of the water before twisting it, watching as blood-stained water pooled on the ground. Upon looking at her hand, the then-clean knife shone her reflection, reminding her of her goal through the slight haziness of her struggle with Veronica's floating body.

Her eerily calm gaze fell to the bag around the body's shoulders. The phone had to be long dead, same as the two she carried with her. Heather dumped both into the pool and began moving towards the same door she came in through, only to be met with a careful whisper from the end of the hallway. 

"Veronica..?" It was a voice she didn't recognize at first, but a glance outside proved the scared person to be Betty Finn in a light lime dress. "Veronica, are you alright? Did you... Did you check the kitchen?" Her steps clicked closer, fearful. Ah yes, Finn. Heather only remembered her, only included her in her little plan, upon recalling she had been the one who had brought the teacher to her just the day before. Karma's a bitch. "Veronica..!" The hushed whisper grew in volume along with the steps and Heather's fingers twitched with expectation. There, exactly there. How convenient of Finn to walk so close to the walls — a reach outside had been enough for Heather's ruined nails to grasp her arm and forcefully tug her into the pool room, making her fall on her side with a loud gasp. She wouldn't give this one the time to scream. The blade in her hand met Betty's throat before she could even register the body of her friend on the pool. Once again, Heather beamed as grotesque gurgles left the girl she was attacking, each stab reaching deeper in her neck, revealing her throat, severing the spine, until the head surprisingly rolled off. Stunned for a moment, she stared into those dead fish eyes before laughing and nudging the head towards the pool. Heater did the same with her arm, her legs, her organs. She wished luck to whoever would be tasked with putting the girl back together with her pieces spread around the school. 

Time for the final act.

Martha would likely be surrounded with people. With that in mind, Heather took the longer route that Veronica had considered just minutes before. The setting sun was gone, the prom was bound to start. She didn't care if people saw it — her only desire was to dispose Martha. With no else in the way of her throne, she would be the queen they needed either they wanted her or not. Little did our queen know that Martha limped searching for her friends through the same hallway she had just been in. As sharp eyes searched for signs of her through every ajar door in the locker-filled corridor, round ones widened upon finding a trail of blood leading towards a grotesque murder scene. Martha's white dress because stained with her reaction upon setting her eyes on the scene and she fell, uncontrollably shaking hands seeking her phone. 

Heather had no explanation to the sudden lack of music in her search or to the sudden rush outside. Ignoring the caution she had kept until that point — at least as much caution as a deranged murderer like her could have — the girl in red stepped towards one of the gym's entrances and pushed the door open. The dancefloor was empty, just like the stage. Through the glass panes above the doors to the outside, she saw blaring red and blue lights that sometimes hit the cheap disco ball in a way that caused it to reflect lovely tones on the walls. It was only a matter of time before everyone else was found. Heather didn't fear the consequences. Instead, she turned her back to the door and stepped onto the wooden stairs. Bloodied hands removed the case above her crown and gingerly placed it on her head. The sash came after, along with the bouquet of deep red roses. It was meant for her. All of it was meant for her. With a laugh of delight, Heather twirled, the blood-heavy and soaked skirt of her dress barely moving with the motion. Her eyes then fell on her audience — her former friends and enemies, except for Martha. The crown was Heather's, not Martha's. Even if she still lived, she wasn't there. Victory by disclassification. All of them bleeding from their mouths, staring upward at her, but not with the admiration and love she wanted. Someone else lacked from her audience, that until cold, wet hands laid themselves upon her shoulders. Even then, they did not make her recoil as much as her father's did. Through the tiniest opening in the doors in front of her, she could see movement and flashes of guns. Veronica's breath met her ear.

"God save the queen," she told her once the commotion outside grew less intense. Heather's eyes filled with tears, smudging her mascara further as her breath grew heavy with panic, her eyes darting over the faces of the ones she had thrown out of her way that same night. Her stomach suddenly dropped, the sharp teeth and claws of guilt seeking to tear her apart. What had she done? How could she? They were alive barely an hour ago. They were gone. "God save the queen!" Veronica repeated, louder, moving from behind Chandler to her front, facing her directly with disgust in her blood-stained water-leaking face. "The queen of highschool land!" The tone was nearly mocking, yet the magic words Heather needed to hear to collect herself and laugh. Surely to the ghosts' despair, she smirked wide and spread her arms after wiping away the black tears that slipped down her face, welcoming her fate. She had done it. She was the queen of highschool land, she was immortal. That night, she was meant to become bigger than John Lennon himself. So, when police broke in yelling at her to kneel, all she could do was smile in the face of death, ready to become a martyr to be celebrated across all media. What else could a queen want?

Perhaps a savior, a knight in dark armor, the shadow that ran from the edges of the backstage and tightly grasped her wrist, nearly snapping it and making her fall, and tugged her along with him. The gunshots barely grazed them, either because of the sudden movement or because they were reluctant about shooting two teenagers, but both the shadow and the queen disappeared from view as Heather was tugged through the opposite side of the backstage and guided through doors that were opened by single bashes of his shoulder against them. 

The cold air of the night surrounded her once they rushed through a last door. In a remote space behind the school, a black SUV was parked. Or perhaps it was dark blue. Heather wasn't sure, given her savior pressed a hand against the small of her back to hurry her. "Get in the car," was his impatient request before she did exactly that, her dress tearing as it got caught on the door, but the both of them didn't seem to care about that. Large bumps and holes made the trip rocky, but there was no other choice but the beaten path through the cemetery to try and dodge the cops. At some point, Heather was sure the man ran over one of the headstones, but she paid it no mind. The rush of adrenaline she felt was gone and suddenly, her eyes closed, giving way to the darkness and her sweet fantasies of queendom. She thought about her phone, which she had left in her car back in the woods. Would her parents be worried about her disappearance? It didn't matter anymore, none of that did. She hadn't become a martyr, but with such an escape from potential death? Heather was sue she had achieved a new kind of immortality.

For how long she slept, she wasn't sure. When her eyes fluttered open, surprisingly not sticky with mascara, the back her seat had been pulled down so she could rest properly and given the bundled up wipes on the floor of the backseat, she assumed her makeup had been cleaned. Two bags laid on the backseat, one with a large amount of food and smokes, the other with what looked like clothes.

"For you. You can't go around where we're going dressed in a blood-covered prom dress." The shadow's voice made her look up and sit straight. Leather jacket and fingerless gloves, sleeked back hair, tired eyes. Heather was surprised upon realizing she knew his name, even if their gazes hadn't crossed more than twice during the school year.

"Jason Dean..?" Her hand rubbed the aching pain in her head and she noticed the blood was gone, even the remains underneath her nails. "Where are we going?" 

A cloud of smoke mostly escaped through the open window, although she inhaled it as well. It did not make her recoil like her father's smoke-infested room had. A hoarse laugh fell from his chapped lips. "Far away from here, sweetheart." His leather-clad hand stretched towards her, offering the burning cigarette. To his surprise, she accepted and took a long, slow drag before exhaling all that smoke like a breath of relief she had been holding back. Silence settled for a moment, but JD couldn't help that biting curiosity that urged him to pry. "Was this what you had planned for prom night?"

Humorlessly, Heather laughed. "Not at the beginning of the week, that's for sure. Did you watch the whole thing?" Another drag and the cigarette was offered back to the shadow, who gladly took it. 

"Watch the linebacker getting bashed with a rock while his boyfriend threw his stomach out was an accident, but then I had to stick around to see just how far you were willing to go. I caught the Sawyer and Finn girls and told them I heard a scream in the kitchen and that I was going to get help. The tall one proved as stupidly brave as I thought." His eyes drifted towards the window, watching the mostly empty highway and the blurring lights before Heather's voice made him glance towards her. She was fidgetting, her nails scratching softly at each other. 

"Would you have done the same thing that I did?" 

It was his turn to chuckle. "Your fucking world crumbled down around you in a matter of days. I can't blame you for being unhappy and getting rid of people that would turn out slaves and blanks in the future. I get it. But I'd personally have blown the whole joint up." His head tilted, granting Heather a very rare sight of a dangerous glimmer in his black eyes. "Cuddling and marshmallows while the fire roared above us." 

The fidgetting stopped and Heather allowed herself to fall back on the seat, her hands laying on her stomach. "Is that your way of asking me out on a date? That has to be the most creative way any one has ever thought of."

"Is that a yes?" 

Heather turned her head towards him, even if she couldn't see much more than his profile from her position. From the radio came an urgent broadcast. Dangerous teen murder on the run with an accomplice, no survivors from the attacks, traumatized parents and friends. A state-wide search to begin soon. Heather closed her eyes and adjusted her head, feeling the slight dig of the crown on her head. Carefully, it was removed, and she stared at the glinting jewelry before brushing a thumb over the central red gem. 

"You want to blow a joint up..?" Heather whispered under her breath but from the barely noticeable side-gaze, she knew JD was listening to her. There was a pause for a few moments which she spent thinking about how fast her fall from grace had been, yet her rise to fame had been even faster and brighter than before. Her parents cared little for her and her friends were all dead after having turned their back on her. Her, of all people. Was there truly anything she had left besides the crown she held and Jason Dean, who was too leaving his life behind for the sake of hiding her, who knows for how long? Her lips spread into a soft smile as she once again sat up, her hand finding his on top of the stick shift and squeezing it tightly. Their eyes met. 

"I say we burn the whole fucking world down."


End file.
